


and if i hold you in my arms (i won't dance)

by emynn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Dancing, Fluff, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Romance, Slow Dancing, and Aziraphale and Crowley being the world's best wedding crashers, and Aziraphale being thirsty af, and Crowley being an awkward disaster who can't articulate his feelings, and indulge my love of all things Fred Astaire, and my staunch belief Aziraphale would be a mega fan, anyway just lots of soft loveliness, as well as, seriously this fic was just an excuse to fulfill my need to have them dance together, there I think I got it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 10:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: There's a reason Crowley won't dance with Aziraphale (or, Aziraphale and Crowley crash a wedding and it doesn't go quite as planned)





	and if i hold you in my arms (i won't dance)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by _[I Won't Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CTR3d2Ly80)_

“What is it exactly we are doing here again?” Crowley tapped the sign at the entrance of the room, which proudly proclaimed they were at John and Penelope Carroll’s wedding reception. “Do we know these people?”

“One might say given our roles, we know every single person in this room,” Aziraphale said, entering the hall, “on a profound, spiritual level, one that transcends the mundane acts of introductions and interactions over time.”

“So, no, then, right.” Crowley leaned down to inspect the rows of crisp white card tents on the long table against the wall. “Don’t suppose we’ll see our names on these, then.”

Aziraphale waved a hand over the cards, then picked two up. “Of course we will,” he said, handing one to Crowley. “Table nine, my dear Mister Crowley.”

Crowley took the card and tucked it inside his coat. “Really, angel, can you please explain to me why we’re crashing some strangers’ wedding instead of enjoying extraordinary amounts of alcohol at your bookshop?”

“_Crashing_!” Aziraphale exclaimed, aghast. “There’s no _crashing _here! Why, I have every intention of bestowing a _blessing _upon the happy couple.”

“Lucky them,” Crowley muttered.

“And besides, you can also enjoy extraordinary amounts of alcohol here.”

“Right so.” Crowley snagged a champagne flute off a server’s silver tray and brought it to his lips. “Cheers.”

“And, perhaps, an exquisite seven-course meal prepared by the finest chef of this century, Roberta Haines.”

Crowley froze, downed the contents of the glass, and grabbed a replacement from another passing server. “Are you telling me you had me dig up a blasted tuxedo so you could enjoy a free meal? You _do _know you’re an angel, yes? You could miracle up a private party and have a menu entirely of your choosing without all this hassle.”

“But it’s so much more fun with the proper atmosphere,” Aziraphale said. “The glitz, the glamour. Why, take a look around you! It’s like we’re on the set of an Astaire-Rogers film!”

“Ah, so _that’s _why you insisted we watch _Top Hat_ the other night,” Crowley said. “Here I was excited you were finally showing interest in a film from the past century, and meanwhile it was just so you could properly plan your outfit to fulfill your fantasy of living in a world where people wear top hats to go to the loo.”

“It’s a black tie event,” Aziraphale said. “We have to blend in. It would be a dreadful faux pas to arrive underdressed.”

“Black tie,” Crowley said, “right. That’s why you’re wearing white? Isn’t that a color more traditionally reserved for the bride?”

Aziraphale frowned, looking down to inspect the canary yellow bowtie, the smart carnation in the lapel, the crisp waistcoat, all perfectly complementing his impeccably tailored tuxedo. “This is cream.”

“It’s a far greater faux pas than showing up underdressed, is what it is,” Crowley said. “Can’t believe I let you talk me out of my new leather jacket for this. I look ridiculous. Who goes around wearing _tails _on their dinner coat?”

“You’re lovely,” Aziraphale said.

“And so what? I’m _lovely_,” Crowley said, a sneer in his voice, but an odd flush on his face. “We still have no business being here.”

Aziraphale sighed, careful to jut out his lower lip just _so_. “Oh, but can’t we at least stay for a little while? We’re already here, and it could be such a lovely night. At least through the main course. Please?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a sleek top hat materialized in his hand. “Oh, fine,” Crowley said, setting it upon his head with far more flourish than was strictly necessary. “But if they start playing anything by that ginger with the turnip face on a guitar, I’m leaving. Smug little bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled, and, with a discreet wave of his hand, temporarily removed _Thinking Out Loud _and _Perfect_ from the bandleader’s memories, and led Crowley to their table. “Of course, of course. Although not before they cut the cake. That would be terribly rude. And you know, I heard the filling is positively _sinful_. Fresh raspberries, frosting so light you’d think you were eating a sweet, buttery cloud!”

The amuse bouche, of course, delighted Aziraphale’s taste buds, and the quail egg atop his salad was a most pleasant surprise. Crowley wasn’t particularly interested in the food, but did enjoy the champagne, and also seemed to enjoy playing with his top hat and resting his chin in his hand as he watched Aziraphale eat and describe every exquisite detail of the cuisine. 

Aziraphale smiled. What a perfect evening.

He was just about to dig into his seared scallops when he sensed the presence of someone behind him.

“Excuse me,” came a light, lilting voice, “would you care to dance?”

“I’m sorry, madame,” Aziraphale said, scarcely looking up, “but out of respect for the chef, I really must taste this culinary experience from start to finish with no interruptions.”

“Oh,” the woman said, blushing, “I was actually asking this handsome gentleman sitting next to you.”

Crowley jerked his head up. “I -- well. I’m. I’m sorry, I --”

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “It would be much more fun than watching me eat. Go on, Crowley. Let loose.”

“I -- but -- champagne,” Crowley protested meekly.

“It’ll be here when you get back,” Aziraphale said. He leaned in close to his friend. “You’ve been so well-behaved lately, this may give you an opportunity to get into a bit of mischief! It’s a lovely night for a little temptation, hmm?”

Crowley’s face turned red. Peculiar, that had been happening a lot this evening. Aziraphale wondered if he was ill. Strictly speaking, demons _couldn’t _fall ill, but given that it was Crowley… well, stranger things had happened. “Angel!” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale popped a scallop into his mouth. “Go on. Have fun.”

So off Crowley went, the elegant young lady leading the way. Humming to himself, Aziraphale dipped his last remaining scallop in the vinaigrette. Truly, Roberta Haines was a marvel. He couldn’t believe he’d been so lucky to overhear a customer share she would be catering this wedding. What a delightful stroke of good fortune. 

He felt a little guilty for dragging Crowley here, of course. This certainly wasn’t his scene. Everyone in tuxedos and evening gowns, making polite conversation, dancing in an elegant, refined fashion… and he wasn’t even interested in the food! Perhaps Aziraphale could be kind and miracle up a little bebop for him; it would be a worthy sacrifice on his part to suffer through some of that dreadful noise in exchange for his friend accompanying him that evening.

Aziraphale looked up, ready to wield a little heavenly influence on the bandleader, but something far more interesting caught his eye.

There was Crowley, in the center of the dance floor, with the same woman who’d approached their table earlier.

And… dear heavens… Crowley looked… 

Aziraphale swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry.

The way Crowley _moved._

Aziraphale was accustomed to his typical saunter, how his hips would sway lazily side to side like a snake who had suddenly sprouted two legs and had managed to learn to walk upright. But when he _danced_!

Shoulders back, chest out, arms perfectly positioned, everything so thoroughly proper and elegant that even Fred Astaire himself couldn’t find fault. He stood tall and assured, and he led the woman around the floor with the greatest of ease. It was as if he wasn’t even thinking about the steps; they moved with such grace and fluidity it was as if they were floating on air.

Suddenly suspicious, Aziraphale squinted, wondering if perhaps Crowley had decided to take his suggestion of a temptation to heart and was performing a little demonic miracle of his own and decided to quite literally sweep the woman off her feet.

But no. So far as Aziraphale could tell, this was ordinary dancing. Crowley was just unnervingly good at it.

When the song ended, another young lady tapped on Crowley’s shoulder and asked for his hand. And when that song ended, another was waiting in line.

“Well, isn’t that lovely,” Aziraphale said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, and not feeling lovely at all. “More than 6,000 years with someone, and still discovering new hidden gifts.”

A server appeared by his side with a domed silver tray. “Roast duck, sir?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He glanced over at Crowley, who was now dancing with a rather handsome gentleman. Thousands of fleeting memories of feeding the ducks at St. James’s Park danced through his mind. “No, I… I couldn’t, I’m afraid.”

The server nodded, and took the tray away without another word.

Heaving a great sigh, Aziraphale turned back to look at the dance floor. Crowley was still the belle of the ball; everyone had their eyes on him, everyone wanted a spin around the floor with the mysterious charming gentleman who wore his sunglasses indoors. Aziraphale couldn’t blame them. Crowley was all elegance and grace, and he moved with a lightness humans would envy. While some of the other men did admittedly look awkward and uncomfortable in their tuxedos, Crowley looked supremely comfortable in his, as though it were merely a second skin.

He only wished he could see Crowley’s face. Was he smiling? Was he enjoying himself? Did he… wish to get to know any of these dance partners better?

Aziraphale’s stomach hurt. He frowned, and reached for a glass of ice water.

“Whew.” Crowley grabbed the water from Aziraphale’s hand and drained it in one long swallow. “What a night.”

“I had no idea you were such a fine dancer.”

“Taught Astaire everything he knew.” Crowley threw himself into the chair next to Aziraphale.

“You did not,” Aziraphale said. “You quite literally slept through the first thirty years of his career.”

Crowley leaned back in his chair. “Well, I taught him some of the things he knew.”

Yesterday, Aziraphale would have dismissed that idea immediately as one of Crowley’s wild exaggerations. But after what he had witnessed tonight, he supposed anything could be possible. “Well, you seemed to be enjoying yourself in any case.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not disco, but it’s a decent way to pass some time. Humans certainly are handsy, though. I’m half wondering if Aunt Hortense is more snake than I am, what with how she was attempting to twine her limbs all around me.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Most improper.”

Crowley held his hand up, and a second later a server had placed a flute of champagne in it. “Nah, it’s all right. So, how’s the food, hmm? Is it everything you’ve dreamed of?”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” Aziraphale lied, and his stomach hurt even more. Why the heavens was he lying to his dearest friend, and over something so frivolous? And why wasn’t he enjoying his meal in the first place? It was divine, beyond compare, quite objectively the best food he’d ever had the honor of putting in his mouth. And yet it all seemed… flat. Dull. Lacking.

He shook his head. The next course would surely reinvigorate him.

Or perhaps…

“What would you say to one more dance?”

Crowley smirked. “What, trying to get rid of me so you can enjoy your next course in peace?”

“What? No,” Aziraphale said, irritated. “I mean a dance with me.”

“Ah,” Crowley said. He took a sip of champagne. “No.”

Aziraphale gasped. “And why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’ve danced with every member of the bride’s immediate family and now suddenly you don’t want to dance?”

“All danced out, I’m afraid.”

“But you haven’t danced with me!”

“And I won’t.”

Well. _That _certainly hurt far more than it had any right to. Aziraphale looked down at his empty place setting. He couldn’t remember Crowley ever denying him something before; typically he’d be snapping his fingers to fulfill Aziraphale’s every wish before he even finished articulating it. Perhaps, having grown accustomed to this behavior, he had simply grown spoiled. After all, it was such a silly thing, being denied a dance. Aziraphale had gone centuries without dancing. He doubted he was even very good at this kind of dancing. It probably wouldn’t even be any fun.

So then why did he want to bury himself in a mountain of blankets with his first edition of _Madame Bovary_?

“But why not?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Please,” Crowley said, and his voice was almost a croak. “Don’t ask me.”

“I believe I have the right to!” Aziraphale said. “You dance with stranger after stranger, but when I ask, your dearest, closest friend, you shake your head!”

“Angel…”

“There _must_ be a reason,” Aziraphale said. “Why else would you refuse such a simple request?”

“Because it’s different with you!”

Aziraphale blinked. “Pardon?”

Crowley rubbed his hand down his face. He looked as discomfited and anxious as Aziraphale could ever remember seeing him, even when the threat of Armageddon was looming over them. It set Aziraphale’s nerves on edge. 

“Aziraphale…”

“Yes,” he responded, and this time he made an effort to keep his tone gentle. 

“Dancing… well, music, really. It leads to certain, um, feelings. Soft ones, you know? But also very strong. Impossible to ignore, really, even when you’re trying your best, you really are. So overwhelming. And it doesn’t make much sense. Your head gets all fuzzy, like when you’ve had too much champagne.” Seemingly reminded of the beverage in question, he downed the last of his glass. “What’s in this champagne, anyway? But… yes, feelings. Emotions. That lead to… other. Walp. When people… humans, mostly, I suppose, I don’t really know of any angels or demons, who have, well, danced over a certain line, where things become... all rosy and soft and disgusting? That is, I mean, music leads the way to…”

“Romance?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley nodded miserably. “And if I hold you in my arms… I won’t dance.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. And he did.

They sat in silence for a moment. A very long moment. Aziraphale couldn’t ever remember them being this quiet for so long before. Typically Crowley would start sputtering out quite literal nonsense to fill any lulls in conversation. But now, it seemed that since no words could possibly compete with the weight of the ones Crowley had just shared, they didn’t even try.

Except…

They had to.

Aziraphale stood up. “Come, Crowley,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Ngk?” said Crowley.

“Dance with me.”

Crowley shook his head, even as he followed Aziraphale to the dancefloor. “I just told you, angel. I won’t. I won’t dance. It’s too much.”

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face with his hand. “It’s exactly as it should be. Now, Crowley. Answer me, truthfully. I would very much like to dance with you. Would you like to dance with me?”

“Yes,” Crowley whispered.

“Good.” Aziraphale took one of Crowley’s hands and placed it on his waist, then took the other hand in his own. “Shall we dance?”

For a second, Crowley didn’t move, and Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he had misjudged the situation entirely. They didn’t need to have this dance. Not here, anyway. They could go back to his bookshop, have a nice, good talk, and then…

Crowley took a step, and Aziraphale’s entire universe shifted.

It was easy, dancing with Crowley. It was as comfortable as sitting by his side in his Bentley, as natural as standing side by side feeding the ducks, as lovely as dining at the Ritz. Except it was all that and _more_; with Crowley’s arms around him, he felt lighter, safer, more alive than any human or angel had any right to be. 

And as Crowley led him around the dance floor, guiding him through dips and twirls, Aziraphale felt as though time had stopped. That it was only the two of them in the universe. That in a world of angels and demons, gods and monsters, they had survived. And not only that, but here they were, _dancing _together, basking in the warm glow of humanity. 

Aziraphale was well aware that Crowley was physically capable of stopping time. He had witnessed him doing so a number of times.

But this time Crowley wasn’t using any of his demonic powers.

He was only holding him in his arms.

That was enough. 

Aziraphale leaned in and brushed his lips against Crowley’s. They were soft, warm, tasting of champagne and thousands’ of years of memories and dreams. And a second later, they were moving against his, drawing him in, making him whole.

Thousands of years of battling forces larger than themselves, spent fighting and laughing, despairing and hoping, denying and accepting, all had led to this moment, when an angel and a demon danced among mortals, content, lost in their own private paradise, as the band played on.

_Heaven, I’m in heaven_  
_And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak _  
_And I seem to find the happiness I seek_  
_When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek_

Aziraphale smiled and settled himself more closely in Crowley’s arms.

Yes.

_Heaven. _

* * *

Penelope Carroll wrapped an arm around her new husband’s waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “What a perfect day.”

John nodded. “Better than I ever could have imagined.” He paused. “The only thing I can’t figure out… do you know those two?”

Penelope followed John’s line of sight. There, in the middle of the dance floor, were two gentlemen dancing. One was tall and lean, the very picture of elegance in a crisp black tuxedo as he led his partner around the floor. The other was a bit shorter, and rather plump, with a shock of white blond hair and a wide smile upon his face. Penelope thought she might have a right to be slightly offended that he was wearing a white tuxedo, but he looked so happy and radiated such a sense of love and delight that she was willing to accept the color as cream.

Actually, the more she studied them, the more she realized it wasn’t just the second man who was casting off that feeling of utter contentment. It was the two of them together. With each step they took, with each dip and twirl, the room seemed to grow brighter, lighter, like they were existing inside a single bubble dancing to the top of the champagne she was holding. The more she watched them, the more joy welled up inside of her, until she thought she might burst with it.

“No,” she finally said. “I assumed they were from your side.”

John shook his head. “They look happy. Very in love.”

“In love” seemed to be the understatement of the century in Penelope’s mind. They weren’t just _in _love; they _were _love. It came off of them in waves, spreading throughout the room, brushing soft kisses on the foreheads of their guests, meandering through the crowd with the softest of caresses.

And when it reached John and Penelope, it wrapped itself around them like a lover’s embrace.

“Penelope,” said John, “this might sound mad, but, looking at them, I feel like… we’ve somehow been _blessed_? As if I know with even more certainty that we’ll be happy together for the rest of our lives, and that everyone in this room will always be in our hearts.” He wrinkled his nose. “That was ridiculously sappy; I have no idea where that came from.”

Penelope smiled and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. I feel exactly the same way.” She set down her champagne and held out her hand. “Dance with me?”

They were together, here, on the very first day of the rest of their lives, dancing the night away with friends, family members, and two odd but ineffably indispensable strangers who didn’t seem remotely inclined to ever take their eyes off of each other.

And the only thing she could feel was _love_.

“To the world,” came a soft voice inside of her head. She had never heard the voice before, and yet it was as familiar as her own, or as John’s, or as any of the other countless individuals she had grown to love in her three decades on earth. It was gentle and loving and full of hope, holding a promise for a future as perfect as this day had been. And when she looked up at John, she knew with complete certainty he had heard the same voice.

She kissed him, and then turned to look at the strangers once more, offering them a silent thank you.

_To the world. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you'd like to join me on more Good Omens adventures, you can follow me at [@xoxoemynn](https://xoxoemynn.tumblr.com).


End file.
